


Human Nature

by TheStraggletag



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Brave!Belle, F/M, So you know Belle, Warm Bodies AU, Zombie!Gold
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-07-24 22:56:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20022388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheStraggletag/pseuds/TheStraggletag
Summary: After the zombie apocalypse is averted it’s up to Belle French to rehabilitate a mostly-dead Mr Gold, against advice of the experts and the wishes of the entire town. As she struggles to fan the spark of humanity back into Mr Gold she fails to notice something else kindling between them.Warm Bodies AU





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Artwork by Paradigmparadoxical

It took months to get back to Storybrooke after the beginning of what was known as “the treatment” by which most of who’d been affected by the zombie-like virus slowly regained their humanity. It was slow-going, the process done with an overabundance of caution that nobody begrudged, taking into account what the years before had been like. The outbreak had lasted a little under five years, but it had seemed like months, and so much had changed in that time that life before seemed like a distant memory. The idea of just picking up where everyone left off was an impossible fantasy.

When Brisbane had been hit Belle, who’d been visiting relatives at the time, had been lucky enough to get evacuated to Hamilton Island, where the only undead she’d been close to where relatives of locals, who could not bear to put them down and so kept them locked away in the basement of the local pet shelter. Once word of the treatment reached them most of them had been successfully rehabilitated, and soon after that she’d made her way back to the mainland, to be of help where she could and find out news about her family and friends.

She’d first heard news of Storybrooke from Ruby, when internet access was restored. The town had taken a hit, like most, but efforts were underway to rehabilitate as many people as possible. She cried with her friend when she called her to tell her Granny had called her by her name. Speech was a big step in the treatment, and it was then that they both knew that Mrs Lucas was going to make it.

She had to wait a long time for flights to be restored, and by then things were mostly under control. She’d heard from Ruby and others that Storybrooke was a sort of success story unlike any other, with all services restored, schools open and a rehabilitation rate that defied expectations, and a lot of it was attributed to the iron will of Madam Mayor and the security efforts of the Town Sheriff. Quite the formidable power couple, according to Ruby. She thought their love story surrounding their shared son was very cute, as far as apocalyptic tales went.

And though she had thought at first that Ruby’s boundless optimism in the face of Granny’s recovery was prompting her to paint a rather misleading picture of how things were back home when she finally made it back to town she had to admit it looked as good as she’d described. There were some signs of destruction, some roadblocks that were still only half-cleared and half the buildings seemed to be in the process of repair but there was an air of orderly normality that she hadn’t seen in other places. Ruby had been there to pick her up from the bus stop, squealing and hugging her for the longest time before commenting on her silver-streaked hair, telling her she loved it.

“You can totally get hair dye, the pharmacy is up and running again- no idea how Mayor Mills did it but it’s almost completely restocked, she must have made some interesting calls to well-connected people- but I kinda dig the look. Goes with your more angular features.”

It was a nice spin on things, as if her thinner body and grey hair were audacious fashion choices and not the product of hunger and stress. The upbeat attitude was decidedly contagious, specially once she saw that her beloved library was mostly undamaged. Boarded up still, and a little worse for wear on the outside, but the inside was just as she had left it. She commented on it to Granny as the woman forced a second helping of pie on her. For someone who had undergone the treatment she didn’t really look it, with the exception of a slight stiffness to her movements.

“I’m glad the town council moved so quickly to board it up.”

“They had nothing to do with it. It was Gold and his crew, mainly that huge mammoth of a man that worked for him, Dove. Did it by themselves, with the help of Marco.”

Though Granny’s tone was as gruff and as acid as it always was when she talked of the pawnbroker Belle felt a pleasant warmth bloom in her. She’d always had a soft spot for the Scotsman, something she knew was a bit of an unpopular opinion in Storybrooke. He had always had a smile and a polite comment or two for her whenever she saw her, was a staunch ally of the library in town council meetings and was keen on chatting about a book when he returned it, which he always did in person. Once or twice they’d sat together when Granny’s was too full and his was the only table with spare seats. People had warned her after the first time they’d shared a cup of tea in public that she was better off staying as far away from possible from him, but she had refused to comply, specially when she caught the bias in a lot of the stories, like the one Ashley Boyd spun, about Mr Gold cruelly charging interest for the rent of a meagre little flat after having been “a little bit late” on the rent. She was never specific about how late till Belle asked, and she reluctantly admitted it was over two months, even past the grace period contemplated on the rental agreement.

“Still, who threatens to evict a young couple with a newborn baby and nowhere to go?”

Ashley was also always careful not to mention her father-in-law, well-off and with more than enough room in his house to host his only son and his wife for a lengthy period of time. Belle could see how her tale of woe lost a little of the dramatic edge with the addition of those pesky details. So she had carried on being friendly with the pawnbroker, even if it made people look at her funny and sometimes whisper behind her back. Just one of the many things that made her strange in the little town, along with her accent and habit of reading in the strangest of moments and places. She hadn’t cared.

“That was so kind of him. I must go over to his house and thank him.”

She hadn’t seen the Scotsman around since her return, but she’d assumed he was busy either with repairs to his home or perhaps the shop, or even trying to restore order to his many properties. He was a fastidious landlord and considering his nature she imagined he’d be one of those people eager to set the world to rights, to restore order.

“You haven’t told her?”

Granny looked at Ruby reproachfully, though she tried to shrug it off. The old woman sighed, not-quite managing to roll her eyes.

“He was amongst the people infected during a breach a couple of years ago. We’ve been told he’s in treatment, but not responding well. It doesn’t quite work on everyone, as you know.”

It felt impossible, at first. Mr Gold was such a vital part of Storybrooke that it made no sense for the town to be still standing without him. He was also so strong, despite his short stature and his reliance on a cane to walk, that it made no sense to think that even the outbreak could’ve gotten to him. He was the sort of man she would expect to survive the apocalypse, if not thrive in it.

It wasn’t until a couple of days later, when she overheard Katherine Knight talk about “visiting Freddie” that she gave more thought about Mr Gold’s situation. Frederick Knight, Katherine’s husband, was amongst the people still being treated and it had not occurred to her that visits to those infected were not only possible, but desirable. It was human contact, after all, the key to guide those afflicted back to their humanity. Contact and communication with loved ones, with people near and dear, was even better, capable of speeding up the process. And she was sure that, though not close, Mr Gold had considered her a friend. She certainly knew him enough to be of help, and she couldn’t imagine people would much object to her taking him off their hands for a couple of hours a day.

It was with a sinking heart that she learned that, though the treatment of the infected was officially managed by the local hospital, the actual efforts were overseen by Mother Superior and her gaggle of nuns, all of which had survived the apocalyptic events. They had done so mostly because the good Mother had ordered the convent’s doors to be bolted at the first sign of trouble. The sisters had spent the entire apocalypse safe behind the tall walls of the convent, living off the produce from the gardens and closing their ears to the pleas for help from outside.

It was no wonder Mother Superior had decided to offer the services of her little lambs when hands were needed to treat the infected once it was discovered this could be done. It was a way to change the narrative, to erase whatever ill-feelings there remained in town regarding the nuns. It was also a way to position herself in a place of power and relevance, one she relished with little subtlety, it seemed to her. She was practically goading when she turned Belle away, telling her Mr Gold was unfit to receive visits of any kind, and that she could give her no further information.

The rumours she heard were not encouraging. People whispered about Mr Gold lashing out against anybody that dared approach him, about him savagely attacking orderlies and snapping out of restraints with a brute force surprising even in an infected. Too violent to be cured, people said, a beast on the outside as he’d always been on the inside. So thin and haggard, in such a state of rot, that he was practically a boney. The town seemed quite content to do nothing about it, so she decided in the end to take the matter to the mayor. Regina Mills was the closest thing Mr Gold had to family. They’d known each other since she was a baby- there were some unsavoury stories about the pawnbroker and Regina’s mother, but nothing anyone could corroborate- and though they usually bickered they seemed to have a certain respect and fondness for each other, at least from what she’d been able to see.

To her credit Regina did seem to share her concerns regarding Mr Gold- Hell, even Sheriff Swan, not his biggest fan, seemed sympathetic- but didn’t think much could be done about it.

“I wish I could tell you Mother Superior or the orderlies at the hospital were exaggerating, Miss French, but I’ve been to see Mr Gold. Even restrained he was quite violent, and my presence seemed to agitate him more than help him. I believe everything that could be done for him is being done. He’s simply… not responding as he should. I am told it happens.”

She seemed to be honestly contrite, which gave her the opening she needed to convince her to demand the hospital let her visit. It took a while, and some back and forth, but she was finally given permission, though begrudgingly, by Dr Whale and Mother Superior. She was full of cautious optimism that morning, joining Mary Margaret Nolan in the hospital entrance lobby to wait for visiting hours to start, listening intently as the schoolteacher told her that she was hopeful her husband would be released soon, given his progress.

Her enthusiasm waned somewhat when Mary Margaret was ushered along a brightly-lit corridor and she in turn was escorted to a key-coded door that led to the basement, and taken down a flight of stairs into a dark hall, where a clearly-recovering orderly was mopping the floors. She was told to go to the “cell at the end”, a phrase that did away with the rest of her cheerfulness. The air down there was damp and stale, and mold grew on certain areas along the walls and in corners. The floor was solid concrete, with an abundance of thin, spidery cracks, and there were heavy metal doors to her left, with small covered windows slots further down that remained shut, but likely was meant for trays.

She found him when she peered into the third door, though it was difficult to see him at first because the cell was unlit but for the light that shone from a small barred window high above and he was in a shadowy corner, standing still. It was only when her eyes adjusted to the darkness that she began to make out his silhouette, and later more and more details. In many ways it was easy to recognise him: custom suit, slightly-uneven gait, favouring one leg clearly over the other, and shaggy hair a tad too long to be respectable. At the same time, however, the man in the cell looked like a complete stranger: rail-thin, with his trousers torn and his suit jacket in tatters. He wasn’t even wearing a tie, something she’d never seen Mr Gold without. The eyes, however, were the most striking difference: clouded over, almost milky-white, dull and unfocused.

“Oh, Mr Gold…”

The living corpse seemed to shudder, head tilting back to sniff the air. She braced herself for anything, any sudden movement or anything that could remotely be construed as violent, but nothing happened. There was definitely something different, though, an awareness that hadn’t been there before. He could certainly smell her, she knew that, and had likely heard her loud and clear- infected tended to have their sense of smell and hearing heightened, even while their organs and muscles deteriorated. So he knew she was there, but did not attack her, did not seem interesting in doing her harm. The way it seemed there wasn’t anything inherently aggressive or incurable about him, he simply had been left alone to rot.

If no one was gonna do anything about it she would.

She decided the best way to establish any sort of relationship was through something she knew Mr Gold enjoyed. She set aside several afternoons a week to sit down on the hard concrete floor next to Mr Gold’s door and read him, choosing books from his favourite authors and genres. She started with Borges, which he had often checked out, and Irvine Welsh, along with some Cortázar and Verne. She would sneak in, unsure whether Mother Superior wouldn’t try to stop her if she knew what she was trying to do, and spend hours reading and drinking tea. Sometimes Ruby would sneak her something to eat- she had decided early on that she needed at least one person who knew where she was going and what she was doing just in case, specially when it became clear no one went to the basement except her. No nuns, no doctors, no one. People were literally waiting for Mr Gold to turn to dust, too squeamish to outright put a bullet in his brain and be done with it but in no real rush to see him recover either.

Spite became a motivator during those afternoons were things didn’t seem to be progressing and it looked like she was wasting her time. Mr Gold would like that, she thought privately. She felt an odd sort of camaraderie when she thought about sticking it to the nuns, about the expression on Mother Superior’s face if she succeeded. She told him about that, and about the progress being made around town. At some point she started calling him by his first name- Ramsay, a confession he made when she’d playfully teased him about having “R. Gold” as the name on his library card- thinking it might spark something.

She would feed him too, whatever large chunks of raw meat she could get from Granny, who she suspected was well aware of what she was doing but said nothing. She was fully cured, herself, with minimal sequels, but her experience seemed to have made her empathetic to Mr Gold’s plight. She had retained some of the incredible sense of hearing she’d enjoyed while undead. It wasn’t unheard of for people to keep a trait or two from their sickness, though it was rare. In some cases the infection had cause certain irreparable changes to their physiognomy, specially in those further gone.

Fortunately for Belle Mr Gold enjoyed the raw meat, though she never saw him eat it. She’d leave it before heading back to the library and it’d be gone in the morning, tray licked clean but Mr Gold back in his corner. It was a relief, somewhat, to see him lose some of his boney appearance, though he was still rail-thin, little more than skin and bones.

Her first big break happened during an ordinary afternoon, while she sat and read to him something by Horacio Quiroga. Mr Gold rather liked the dark short stories, and though some people might have thought them inappropriate reading material for a recovering zombie Belle disagreed, thinking that anything that might elicit a response from Mr Gold, any response at all, was worth trying.

It was while she was nearing the end of The Feather Pillow that she heard a shuffling and later a thump right on the other side of the door. Tentatively she knocked on the metal door, barely containing a happy laugh when something on the other side knocked back, slow but surely. It was the first time that Mr Gold acknowledged her at all and thought it was a small thing it felt like something monumental. It put a smile on her face so bright Ruby teased her about it for weeks, and prompted her to take a leap of faith one afternoon and open the latch that kept the small window on the door covered. There was no glass to further separate them so she was able to tentatively slip her hand through the opening.

“Come here, Ramsay. Come on, you know me. It’s okay.”

Mr Gold did perk up somewhat, and later dragged himself across the room. She forced herself not to flinch as he leaned forward, his nose almost brushing her skin as he breathed in deeply, hesitantly at first but pressing closer when something about the scent seemed to catch his attention or spark something in him. He never made a move to bite so for the longest time Belle just stood there, on her tippy-toes to be able to pass most of her arm through the opening, fighting the urge to pull back. Her fear gave way to cautionary optimism and later awe at the way Mr Gold practically rubbed his entire face against her hand, as if the notion of skin to skin contact was some sort of miracle. He breathed her deeply now, big lungfuls of her scent, nose pressed tightly against her palm or the underside of her wrist, his expression almost desperate. He made a sort of whining noise when she was forced to pull her arm back, and followed her hand until he physically couldn’t anymore.

She cried later that night, back in the safety of her library, away from prying eyes, part out of sheer relief and part out of anger and sadness at the thought that Mr Gold had been left to rot not because he was beyond help, but rather because it was so convenient. So many people had been given second chances once the rebuilding had started, people who had committed questionable or even downright despicable acts during the apocalypse. Ruby had warned her at the beginning about some, like Keith Nott and Greg Aston, who had taken to the chaos of the past years like ducks to water, had grown unruly and dangerous. She had heard only half-stories, mostly from Ruby, mostly things no one could prove or cared to now that the human race had another chance and the population was in dire need of able-bodied men to rebuild and reproduce. If Storybrooke was ready to embrace lowlifes like those they would have to get used to having Mr Gold back, and she’d call out anyone who dared fight her on that on their hypocrisy.

From then on it became routine to let him smell her. Mr Gold seemed to look forward to it, being sure to stay close to the door and letting out a growly sort of purr when she reached out to him. He was also eager to let himself be stroked and his hair petted, which took a bit of getting used to but to her made sense. Mr Gold had always avoided contact as a rule. Though he sometimes tended to invade people’s personal space as a tactic to put them ill at ease, he usually skirted human touch. She’d had occasion to make a study of it, back before the apocalypse, down to how Mr Gold almost always wore gloves on rent day and avoided passing anything hand to hand. She had noticed that once he got familiar with her he let his guard down a bit and sometimes allowed casual touches, fingers brushing over a book exchanging hands, things of that nature. But he’d always shied away from further contact.

Belle had long ago come to the conclusion that he must have been very touch-starved, given how little actual skin to skin contact he seemed to experience day to day. She had seen him flex his fingers often, his hands and entire body full of nervous energy, of a sort of yearning for what he denied himself. Now, stripped of all human pretenses, without the need to protect himself from others, he was seeking out that which he needed like he hadn’t allowed himself before. She told him over and over that it was alright, that he was allowed to want and seek affection, that she would never use it against him or otherwise harm him with the knowledge. She hoped it would stick on the back of his mind, so he wouldn’t be embarrassed when he was himself again, or wary of her.

She hadn’t expected it to feel so… powerful. So heady, to have someone like Mr Gold, who always seemed larger-than-life, lean on her so trustingly, so eagerly. To have a creature capable of immense feats of strength, of untold violence, purr under her touch like a kitten. She’d always wanted to do it, to reach out and give some sort of comfort to Mr Gold, a little bit of the affection he was sorely missing. It was precisely why she told herself to be cautious and not rush into things, given her impulsive nature. If she botched things now, if she lost her progress or got into a situation she couldn’t handle, Mr Gold might never recover. She was sure any excuse would be enough for people to demand he be “put out of his misery”. She couldn’t afford mistakes or miscalculations.

So she took things slow, and kept things close to the chest. Best no one knew of her progress until she could get Mr Gold talking a little, enough to prove without a shadow of a doubt that he was on the mend, and that killing him would be killing a human being and not some well-dressed boney. So she went about her day as normal as possible, helping set the town to rights, cleaning the library, helping Dove with the community garden that grew on some land belonging to Mr Gold and that was still a vital source of a lot of produce the town consumed, though the normal flow of goods and services was slowly being re established across the estate. Dove was an attentive gardener and the work was strangely soothing. She set her afternoons aside for Mr Gold, though, reluctant to miss a day and cause a potential regression. And it helped her too, helped her deal with what she’d lived through, the peace and companionship she found in the basement of the hospital, with Mr Gold. In the hope that sparked in her every time she caught a glimpse of his eyes and they looked less cloudy and more focused, more alive.

She was so focused on those things, so eager to escape to her afternoon trysts, that she forgot to pay proper attention to her surroundings. It was night when she left the hospital, later than she’d realised, but nothing seemed amiss at first. Even after she heard something she didn’t immediately panic. The Rabbit Hole was close to the hospital, and people were still getting celebratory drunk in honour of the ending of the apocalypse. Sheriff Swan was good about keeping things controlled, all things considered.

It wasn’t until they were almost upon her that she noticed them, staggering around shouting at her, some slurred lewd proposition that made her walk faster, but nothing else. When she chanced a glance back she felt the first true jolt of fear, recognising easily the tall, lanky man as Gregory Aston, which made the other man following her his buddy Keith. Greg had made some advances before the apocalypse, which she hadn’t returned, much to his displeasure. But back then they had both lived in a society with strict rules that limited whatever he might have wanted to do when he was rejected. Now he strutted around Storybrooke getting into fights and using his brute strength to get whatever he wanted, having grown used to the more violent times of the apocalypse, when his fighting ability had given him a position of prominence. Keith, on the other hand, had thrived in the smuggling business, specially of drugs, and was still active. Emma was a competent sheriff but the problems of a town like Storybrooke in the post-apocalypse were many, and the resources of the sheriff’s office were limited.

Being the stupid sort of drug dealer one would’ve expected from Keith he often tested his merchandise and shared it with close pals, which included Greg. Belle could see it the closer they got to her, the tell-tale signs of a person under the influence of more than just alcohol.

“Hey, Belle, wait up, we wanna talk to you!”

She began to seriously consider her options. The library was too far away, and it was too late for Granny’s to be open. The station was close by, but the sheriff was doing rounds so no one would be there. It seemed safer to go back to the hospital, where there was bound to be at least a couple of nurses on their night shift.

“Hey, you frigid bitch, I know you can hear us!”

Running probably was ill-advised, but at some point Belle couldn’t fight her instincts anymore. The relief she felt when she burst through the doors of the hospital was short-lived. The reception area was deserted, and access to the rest of the hospital seemed to be blocked, a precaution typical of the days of the apocalypse that people seemed to still be keeping. Frantically she went to the one door she knew the combination to, but when she tried to close it behind her it was wrenched from her grasp, either by Greg or Keith, she didn’t bother to look. Someone grabbed her arm when she raced down the stairs, but years of surviving in a high-stress environment had given her sharp reflexes that helped her pull herself free.

“There’s nowhere to run, sweetheart. We promise we’ll be nice, we just want to be nice to you, Belle.”

She didn’t know when she made the decision. It was in a split second, more instinctual than anything else. Mr Gold’s cell was bolted from the outside but not locked, she’d noticed that from the beginning. She’d been tempted to open the door so many times, but she’d restrained herself. But now adrenaline was rushing through her and the survival instinct that had kept her alive through hell on Earth moved her to make a quick decision, to seek out safety. Without pausing to second-guess herself she unbolted the door, pushing her way inside and closing it behind her.

“Got ourselves a room, how nice.”

“Hope there’s a bed inside!”

It was dark inside the cell. The only light came from the corridor and was too faint to reach inside. Belle knew she was not alone in the room but she could not hear or see Mr Gold. The infected got very good at being quiet and staying out of sight, like the best of predators, which wasn’t an altogether-reassuring thought. Greg and Keith stumbled inside the room, uncoordinated and sluggish from drink and whatever else they’d consumed, and Belle stepped back, seeking who she knew was there.

“Now, Belle, this doesn’t need to be bad. Ugly. We can… can treat you right. Make it good. We’re nice guys.”

Greg had always said that. Belle was sure that, against all odds, he believed it. Even as he clamped a hand around her arm, with enough force to make her wrist hurt, to make her cry out in pain and fight to wrench herself free. Even as Keith laughed next to him, clumsily pawing at his belt. There was a second of all-consuming fear, the kind that paralysed the muscles and made it difficult to breathe. Then there was a growl and she felt rather than saw an arm wrap around her waist and pull her backwards. Another arm went across her chest, securing her against something solid behind her.

“Holy fuck, what the-?”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

The sheer terror in both men’s eyes was almost amusing, if it weren’t for the fact that Belle felt the same. Mr Gold’s face was next to hers, snarling, teeth bared in a clear warning. She wanted to say something, so that he’d recognise her as a friend, let himself be soothed, perhaps, but nothing came out. Greg and Keith scrambled backwards, fighting to be the first ones out the door, bolting it behind them for good measure before running away, the sound of their footsteps eventually fading into nothing. They weren’t going to look for help, she knew it. Too messy for them, too dangerous. They’d left her alone, perhaps even hoping Mr Gold would take care of her so she wouldn’t go telling tales and for a moment her anger overcame her fear, so thoroughly that she didn’t notice Gold’s head move, his nose coming to press against her neck. He took a deep, audible breath and Belle froze again, part of her bracing herself for a bite. But none came, Mr Gold seemingly content to scent her. Slowly Belle felt fear drain out of her, allowing her to somewhat compose herself.

“It’s just me, Ramsay, Belle. You know me, don’t you?”

He made a purring sound, the one she’d grown so used to, and loosened his hold on her, not a drop of aggression on him. Belle tentatively petted his hair, excited now to be able to look at him so closely, to notice the very slight tint of pink on his cheeks and the slight warmth of his skin, signs of his recovering humanity. He, likewise, seemed curious about her, hands hovering near her, as if asking for permission to touch, to explore. And though he didn’t dare grab her again he had no problems pressing his nose close to whatever part of her he could reach. He spent long minutes scenting her hair, fingers ghosting over it, as if delighted by the feel of it. Fascinated and intrigued she let him proceed, allowing him to sniff at her forehead, down her neck and over her torso. It was strangely endearing, or at least until he pressed firmly against the juncture of her thighs, taking a deep breath in an attempt to scent her through her underwear and cotton shorts.

“No!”

She pushed against his shoulders and he scrambled away, clearly feeling chastised by her tone and actions. He looked confused, as if unaware of whatever he’d done wrong, and whatever offence she might have felt a moment ago went up in smoke. Slowly, so as to not spook him, she sat down in the cot next to him and turned his face so they’d make eye-contact.

“Hey, Ramsey, I’m sorry. You didn’t know. It’s okay, Ramsey, I’m not mad.”

Something sparked in his eyes, and he tilted his head to the side, brow furrowing.

“R-r-r-r…” With a jolt, Belle realised he was trying to speak. It was more of a growl than anything else, but there seemed to be a purpose to it, a desire to shape it into something. “R-r-rum.”

He splayed a hand against his chest and repeated the word. Belle understood at once what he was trying to say.

“Yes, yes, that’s right. You’re Ramsay, that’s your name. Ramsay.”

She said it slowly, over and over again, delighting in the way he focused on her lips as they shaped out the word. He couldn’t quite repeat it, not entirely at least, but he recognised it without a doubt as his name, the first concrete proof that he could not only understand speech but that he had also recovered a sense of self, and at least partial access to his memories. He also seemed to realise it was a momentous occasion, his lips curling up into a shadow of a smile, looking more like Mr Gold than ever.

Knowing that certainly Ruby or Dove would report her missing tomorrow and that this would be an obvious place to check out, seeing as to how Emma and Regina suspected of her near-constant visits, she settled down to wait, lying down on the cot so her face was close to Mr Gold- Rum, now, in her mind- who was still on the floor, looking at her. She talked to him as one of her hands combed through his tangled hair, told him about Dove and how he was taking care of everything for him, about how the Library was ready for re-opening and how things were slowly returning to normal. There was an understanding in his eyes that hadn’t been there before, as if one more of many veiled had been lifted and he could see the world more clear now than before.

She didn’t recall falling asleep, but she must have at some point. When she awoke there was no panic, even when she registered the grey walls of the cell and the thin, hospital-issue mattress beneath her. Rum was next to her, sitting on the floor leaning against the cot and watching her from beneath a curtain of shaggy hair. It was, she was sure, longer than it had been weeks ago, another sign of his blossoming humanity to add to her list.

“Good morning, Rum.”

She pulled herself to a sitting position, looking around her. Now that there was slight coming into the room from the small window in a corner she could see the room properly, and winced at the signs of decay and disrepair. Surely it couldn’t be conductive to his recovery for him to be locked up in a place like that. She would need to try and convince Regina to do something about it, if she could somehow get the woman to the cell so she could see with her own eyes that Rum was on the mend, and certainly not a danger to anyone.

It was while she contemplated how to go about it all that she heard faint sounds, and later the murmur of voices. Someone shouted her name, desperately- Ruby, it sounded like- followed by others. Rum tensed up beside her, scrambling to stand between her and the door. She was about to try and calm him down when she was startled by the cell door being violently yanked open, Sheriff Swan stepping into the room with her revolver up and aimed squarely at the Scotsman’s head. Behind her Belle could see Ruby, David Nolan- who acted sometimes as Deputy Sheriff, and the major herself.

“No, wait!”

Thankfully for her Rum was a short man, so getting in front of him guaranteed Emma would be unable to shoot him in the head. It didn’t make her drop her stance, though, specially when she saw Rum grab her from behind and snarl.

“Belle, what the fuck? Get out of the way!”

“No, you don’t understand. It’s okay. I’m okay. He’s not gonna hurt me. He’s not aggressive.”

She knew how ridiculous she sounded like, with Rum behind her, teeth bared and hands digging into her skin to the point where she had to admit hurt a little, but it was important that they understood.

“He… he’s on the mend. He just thinks you’re threatening me. Just… just stand down. He’ll relax.”

She wasn’t sure he would, but it was worth a try. Emma, to her credit, didn’t dismiss her words, and obviously noticed Rum was making no move to bite or otherwise attack her. She lowered her firearm and relaxed her posture, and little by little Belle felt Rum do the same behind her, though he kept one of his hands curled protectively on her shoulder, as if ready to yank her back at the first sign of trouble. She took advantage of the tentative peace to recount the events of last night, trying to be as detailed as possible. Though she got some sceptic looks she could see that at least Emma and Regina were considering part of what she was saying, particularly regarding Keith and Greg. When it came to Rum, however, the general consensus seemed to be that Belle was likely being a bit too optimistic, and there weren’t enough grounds to challenge the authority of Mother Superior regarding Mr Gold’s situation.

“No, you’re not listening to me. He’s on the mend. He knows who he is, he has memories. Look at him. At the colour of his skin, at his eyes. He’s better. He knows who I am, I’m sure.”

She stared at Emma, hard, as if daring the blonde to contradict her, to pat her on the head and tell her she was mistaken, confused, seeing things that weren’t there. To her surprise she felt Rum’s hand on her shoulder tighten.

“B-B-B-Be-Belle.”

It was more of a croak than anything, but there was no mistaking what he’d just said. Everyone froze in place and things were deadly quiet for a second or two. Belle could have sworn that when she chanced a glance at Rum there was something of the familiar Mr Gold smirk about him, the satisfied, smug look he often got after striking a deal or getting the better of people. Finally, after what felt like forever, Regina spoke.

“I can’t wait to see the look on Mother Superior’s face when I tell her this.”

Rum’s progress seemed to accelerate after that, though his vocabulary remained reduced. But his understanding of speech and his communication skills evolved immensely, and there was a constant awareness now of what was going on around him and a spark of intelligence that hadn’t been there before.. The major, likewise, was determined to make her own progress and before the week was out she managed to arrange a review of Mr Gold’s case with Dr Whale and Dr Hopper, against the express wishes of Mother Superior. Both reports were as positive as Belle could’ve hoped for, with Dr Hopper encouraging Mr Gold be moved to his own house for the remainder of his recovery, which was usually the next step once patients had developed enough understanding of the world around them.

Belle and Dove worked tirelessly to put Mr Gold’s house to rights, or as close to it as possible. Dove had boarded it up after Mr Gold had been infected, so it was quite the job to open it up again and clean it, but the inside was mostly well-preserved. All around Storybrooke news of the imminent release of the pawnbroker spread around fast, and the reception was more than a little chilly. No one dare take it up personally with Belle- apparently the first idiot to even insinuate something like that had had a pickaxe nearly flung at them by Leroy- but people definitely gave her hostile looks and were otherwise very vocal about how much better things would’ve been if Mr Gold had simply… faded away. It was disgusting and she was grateful that those closest to her seemed to be on the same page.

It was nighttime when Rum was officially discharged. He’d been already moved to a regular hospital room a day before in preparation and to administer any final tests and such. Afterwards they left him sitting in the hallway, which was where she found him. He visibly perked when he saw her, lips curling into that adorable half-smile that she remembered from years ago. He lurched forward towards her, which made her notice his limp was more pronounced than before. Infected people gained strength and agility due to the changes in their bodies, which could also strengthen injured bones and muscle. The more Rum’s body returned to its natural state the more his old injury reasserted itself. It was a strange sort of positive sign.

Thankfully the streets were deserted, like she’d hoped when she’d suggested Rum be released at night. They walked slowly, him leaning slightly against her for balance, looking around with unabashed hunger. He breathed in deeply, scenting the air, silently reveling in his freedom. Certain buildings and sights seemed to catch his attention, his eyes lingering on the diner, the library and specially on his pawnshop. When they finally got to the edge of town and he spotted his house he visibly moved faster, tugging her along and paying little attention to his dragging right leg as he all but sprinted towards it. His movements were still very wooden and stiff but the progress was astounding.

The house was dimly lit, electricity still being strictly rationed, but Rum seemed to want to explore everything at once, at least until something seemed to occur to him and he darted awkwardly up the stairs. When she followed him she found him in his ensuite bathroom, shower already on. He was struggling to take his tattered clothes off, which was no easy feat given his current lack of dexterity. Belle helped him take his jacket off, trying not to smile at his slightly abashed look. What was left of his shirt was partly stuck to his undershirt and skin by grime and blood. It took ten minutes and a pair of scissors to peel the fabric off him safely. His torso was littered in half-healing bite marks and scratches and when she gently touched a couple of them he sighed, pressing his forehead against hers.

“I’m-m-m okay.” She didn’t realise until he tried to console her that she was crying. “Ev-v-v-very-thing is o-k-k-ay.”

His brogue was so thick it was difficult to understand him, and his voice was still raspy and harsh form disuse but the gentleness with which he sought to reassure her made his words soft as butter. She helped him out of the rest of his clothing, leaving his boxers on when it became clear he was not keen on the idea of having her remove them. She rummaged his walk-in closet for a pair of pants, fresh underwear and a t-shirt and left him to shower in peace. Afterwards- thankfully, dressing up had been easier for him than stripping down- she sat him down in front of a mirror and trimmed his hair at his request, pleased at the results. Showered and properly groomed Rum was looking more like himself than ever.

When she brought up the idea that she might stay the night- Dove had prepared a room for her just in case- he looked painfully relieved and agreed vigorously, not letting her out of his sight until she slipped into her own room, leaving the door ajar behind her. He shuffled into the room that she’d pointed out was his and laid on the bed, feeling a strange burning in his eyes, and a heaviness that he didn’t recognise at first. Minutes later he was asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

He woke up with the feeling of teeth clamping hard on the flesh of his torso, and nails scratching his skin, trying to tear him apart. It was difficult at first to understand he had been dreaming because he had never done so before. He looked around, feeling a vague sense of familiarity and an undeniable sense of safety and knew that he was somewhere he’d been before, yet he couldn’t properly remember it.

He tried hard to recall his earliest memory. He was in the forest, and he could feel nothing but a faint ache, as if some part of his body hurt but he wasn’t sure which. There was also a deep hunger, and that seemed to be all that he could recall clearly. Being hungry all the time, craving something.

He vaguely recalled being taken from the forest and placed in the cell. He felt trapped and could smell the hostility in the air, prompting him to fight back, to protect himself. After that there was… nothing, for the longest time. Just a sense of the world dimming more and more around him, of his senses dulling and whatever remained of his consciousness snuffing out little by little, something ugly and primal and violent taking its place. 

Everything changed when she came. It was her smell that attracted his attention first, something that tugged at a part of him buried deep inside, that told him that whatever was on the other side of the door was important. Then she started talking to him, stimulating his sluggish, dying mind into working again. He grabbed onto it, onto her, desperately, fighting to not disappear into the ether, to come out of the fog where he found himself. She was… like a flicker of light amidst an ocean of darkness. Slowly but surely he began to feel the stiffness melting off his joints, and lucidity asserting itself little by little.

It was all very basic, at first. Simple thoughts, a sliver of thought wrapped in layers upon layers of instinct. He began noticing the pattern of her visits, and recognising the smell of her. His first true, coherent thought was about lavender. She smelled like lavender, and suddenly he remembered what that was. With effort he formed a picture in his head of the plant, of its small, fragrant flowers. It was a first step, and soon it became easier to take another, and then another. He began piecing together what had happened to him. He’d been attacked. There had been some sort of… outbreak, or something. And the attack had turned him into something else. Something he had almost completely given into. But now there was a way back to whatever he’d been before.

People didn’t like him, he realised next. Whether it was because of what he was or who he’d been before he was not sure, though he suspected. He could very faintly scent others like him nearby, or similar, yet he was the only one left to rust in the cells, left alone. One face in particular, a grim, thin and pinched one, stood out to him as particularly hostile, but he couldn’t recall a lot about it. The scent emanating from the person- like something sweet that had been burnt- also made him ill at ease.

Scent was something that he relied on heavily, one of his only sources of information in the cell. It served his more primal side, allowing it to identify danger and know what went on beyond his prison. But it also sparked something in the other part of his brain, the one struggling to piece itself back together. The scent from the remains of a tattered silk square tucked into his suit was familiar- sandalwood, the word eventually popped into his head one day. The scent of musty things was oddly comforting and it tugged at something in his memory, as did the scent of polish, for some reason.

But it was the scent of her what had jarred him out of his sinking stupor. Something fiercely familiar, something that screamed at him to remember like nothing else had. He had a vague impression of warmth and nervousness, of something fluttering deep inside his stomach, but it was a fleeting sensation, there one moment and gone the next. But it was something to hold on to, some manner of feeling that kept him from the slow decay he’d been in.

At first he’d only smell her, taking care to do so in a way that caught all the nuances. He could tell when she smelled tense or tired or particularly welcoming, subtle changes in the scent telling him a bit about her day and her state of mind. But later, as she begun to read, he focused on her voice. Little by little the pleasant gibberish began to make some sort of sense. Some words or phrases jumped out, familiar or meaningful in a way. Something about the cadence of certain works felt known to him, and some others conjured images and stories inside his head. Listening to her read felt like an itch inside his mind, unpleasant but exciting at the same time.

Her name came to him as he held her close to ward her against the foul-smelling humans that had been chasing her, reeking of adrenaline, alcohol and hormones. He’d held her close and had had an image of him doing so before- of her falling down some stairs and into his arms- and suddenly he knew who she was.

_Belle._

Once he had her name other things came easier. It was as if something had been unlocked and, slowly, information he’d thought he’d lost trickled back into his mind in a jumble. He was in Storybrooke, a small town in the middle of nowhere, Maine, where he was a pawnbroker and antiques dealer. The knowledge came with a strange sort of awareness in his bones, as if his hands and arms were remembering with him, remembering the skills he’d developed, the work he used to do. It wasn’t much, but it was a start, and as his hunger for more remnants of his past self grew so it dimmed that other hunger, the more primal one that had terrified and excited him so.

His newfound self-awareness, thankfully, came at the same time he was removed from the dank, cold cell and into a proper room, smelling strongly of antiseptic but blissfully clean and warm. Cold hadn’t bothered him before but it began to, gradually, as did other things like dirt and constant darkness, specially once he realised he could see less and less in the dark. In the same manner he grew increasingly aware of a dull, throbbing pain in his right leg, and the phantom memory of an accident- a dark night, a patch of ice on the road- and an old injury asserted itself in his head.

The sight of the bright salmon walls with the dark green detailing brought about a more keen sense of safety that he’d ever felt before and he knew why as soon as he was inside. This was his house, his home. It didn’t matter that he didn’t recognise half the things inside. It smelled right. He, on the other hand, didn’t, and it was with staggering relief that he realised he could do something about it. The shower, in many ways, was transformative. So much of what he’d associated with his declining state, with his dehumanisation, had to do with the slow decline of his cleanliness. It was hard to hold on to his sense of humanity when there was blood and grime on him, when his clothes hung in tatters and he smelled of dirt and decay.

With a familiar set of silk pyjamas on and the scent of glycerine soap and Aramis- he’d managed to read the letters on the small bottle, to his surprise- he felt more human than he’d ever remembered feeling. And it was perhaps why he dreamt that night, a novel concept. It was so real. He was in the forest, being chased, afraid. And then there were claws digging into his clothes, tearing at his hair. Then teeth, clamping around his side, sinking deep. He startled awake with the feeling of his half-healed bite-mark burning, and his body damp with perspiration.

When he’d been fully infected he’d had only a vague notion of the infection itself, of how it had happened and what it meant. But mostly he’d been focused on the hunger and little else and as lethargy set in he engaged less and less with the world around him. Now his perception of it was expanding by the minute and so was his awareness of what had happened. Of the outbreak and how it had changed everything and everyone, exposing all that was ugly about the world. And he could recall now the being that had bitten him, so thin, so gaunt it barely looked human. With a scrap of fabric hanging off it, what remained of its clothing.

A boney. That’s what they were called. Cadaveric, skeletal remains of what had once been real people. With no shred of a soul left, led only by the instinct to hunt and consume, too far gone to ever come back. And he had been close to becoming one of them, he was sure of it. If he concentrated he might still be able to fully feel it, that insatiable thirst, the blind rage. It prompted him to leave his room, his nose seeking out the comforting smell of lavender and vanilla coming from the room in front of his. His fledgling sense of propriety- it was strange, to suddenly start caring about certain rules of decorum, but he took it as a good sign- protested the idea of him lying down next to her, but it was easy to push it aside to seek his comfort. Everything about his journey back to consciousness was painful and frightening. The more he was aware of the world, and of himself, the worse it was. More confusing, more unpleasant, and strangely disorienting.

Belle made it bearable. Belle, so strong, so fearless, centred him somehow. He was in awe of her and how could he not be? She was his saviour. His defender. His patient teacher and kind friend. She had a warmth about her that seemed to spread through his body at the mere sight of her. The devotion she’d inspired had puzzled and frightened him at first but now he accepted it, welcomed it even. Whatever bond there was between them it had helped him find himself, find his way back from the edge, and that couldn’t be bad. 

He felt her shift next to him, her eyes blinking open briefly and squinting to get a glimpse of him in the near darkness. She murmured something in a reassuring tone before drifting off again, seeming to not care he was in bed with her. Her easy acceptance of his person never seemed to stop amazing him, but he’d learned to stop questioning it. Instead he allowed himself to curl up close to her, allowed her scent to envelop him completely.

She smelled heavenly. Sweet, with an underlying tang that he could almost feel on the back of his throat.

_Delicious._

He felt a tug just below his navel, an emptiness that was all too familiar. He shifted, suddenly uneasy, and felt his mouth water. He pressed his nose against the curve of her neck and panicked when he felt the need to bite into the skin there.

Immediately he pulled back, fear bubbling to the surface at the familiar, unwelcomed urge. The painful, sudden reminder of his inhumanity was like a slap in the face, but he forced himself to keep calm, to fight against his instincts. He’d come very far, had pulled himself from the edge, and he was not going to go back. He just needed to speed up his recovery. Walk around, work hard to recover memories, become the man he’d stopped being when he’d been bitten. Belle would remain safe with him.

* * *

It was easier said than done, braving the world outside. It felt awfully tempting to cloister himself in his house instead, smelling of comfort and safety, warm and full of things that catered to his comfort. But the fear of regressing was strong enough to push him out the door, with Belle by his side. She’d helped him into new clothing, and the feel and weight of it- the sharp lines of the suit, the crispness of the shirt, the feel of the tie around his neck- helped centre him. The cane helped too, even though it was more for show still than for necessity. His right ankle was beginning to fail him, but he knew deep inside that it wasn’t as bad as it would eventually get. The more human he became the more his old human limitations asserted themselves, which included his limp. The limp that had slowed him down that day in the forest, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to resent it, not when it meant he was regaining his old self.

The sunglasses helped him cope, not only with the harsh light of the sun, which he hadn’t seen directly in months, but also with the unsubtle scrutiny of the people around him. It seemed no one was particularly interested in keeping their morbid curiosity much of a secret, if their open glances and audible whispers were anything to go by. Surprisingly the apprehension and sometimes downright fear he saw and felt around him- God, he could even _smell it_ \- didn’t strike him as odd or otherwise unfamiliar. It felt expected, almost comfortable, as if he was used to it.

There were a few exceptions to the rule. The woman at the diner, who smelt strongly of starch, coffee and dough, didn’t seem to fear him at all. She seemed to hate him. And the feeling, he soon discovered, was mutual. It was a pity, since she seemed to understand up to a point what he was going through. She even hinted once or twice at an enhanced sense of hearing similar to his sense of smell. But by the end of their very short conversation he was sneering and she was downright snarling and he was glad when they left the diner behind.

Belle, far from being disappointed, was ecstatic.

“You two have never gotten along, it’s just how it’s always been between you. It’s a relief to see you acting so familiar.”

Over the following days he forced himself to interact more and more with people. With some it felt familiar and easy. With the mayor, for example, he fell into a familiar tug-o-war, snark on the outside but a strange sort of affection on the inside. He also found himself tolerating the over-eager attentions of David Nolan, whose blatant and suspicious attempts at male-bonding felt distinctively familiar. His interactions with the man’s dog, Wilby were far more pleasant. He was happy when the dog sniffed him and did not recoil. On the contrary, the dog seemed to recognise him and be excited to see him, a sentiment that was very much reciprocated. He liked dogs, apparently, and they liked him. 

The only set-back he encountered was when they visited the library. Almost as soon as he entered he was assaulted by Belle’s scent. It was everywhere, which he had expected but had definitely not prepared himself for. It was possible to ignore it at first, particularly when he concentrated on Belle and her obvious excitement as she showed him around, pride evident as she gave him a tour. But once she left him alone to attend to the few people who had wandered inside in search of a book, he began to notice it in earnest. It was stronger in some places than others- Belle seemed to favour Ancient History, the language section and the romance corner- and in some specific books. He found himself pressing his nose against their spines, mouth watering and stomach burning, body suddenly ready for sprint and chase and _hunt_. It all felt strangely familiar: the smell of books and Belle, the quietness of the library, the faint heat from the sun pouring through the windows and the unrelenting, persistent yearning. Even trying to stomp it back, to ignore it, felt nauseatingly natural. Perfectly ordinary, as if he’d done it countless of times before.

He told himself he had it under control, that he was getting better. Nevertheless he took to avoiding the library, choosing to spend the time Belle spent there at his pawnshop. It was there that he felt more like his old self. The smell of wood polish, wax, and lanolin was oddly soothing, as was the creaking sound of the spinning wheel he discovered in a corner of his work room. 

He was almost giddy the day he started spinning. He hadn’t done it on purpose at all. He had simply gotten used to standing near the spinning wheel, to making the wheel turn when he was nervous. There was something about the motion and about the creaking noise that was soothing in a familiar way. It felt natural to sit down in the wooden stool in front of it and, slowly, his hands began to move in patterns that made sense once he picked up the carded wool he found on a nearby basket and began to feed it to the wheel.

His dexterity grew by leaps and bounds after taking up spinning, his joints bending easier and his reflexes improving every day. His steps became fluid but for his limp, which was more than a bother then. The injury hurt when it rained or when he overexerted himself, and his dependency on his cane became complete. It was a small price to pay, however, and he reminded himself that feeling pain is something he could not do as a creature

His self-assurance turned to hubris, and he slowly began to lower his guard, to consider his progress complete but for a few technicalities. His memory was slowly piecing itself back together, and he still had some trouble with certain skills and routines that must have been second nature to him once upon a time- like using the French press, which he could never get quite right; whatever Belle did when she used it made the coffee taste considerably better and more like he imagined he intended. Dr Hopper was delighted with his progress, and ready soon to sign the appropriate papers that, together with an all-clear from Whale, would return him his legal personhood.

He was so pleased that night that it was hard to find sleep, and when he did it was fitful, restless. Something felt off, but he couldn’t quite figure out what at first. Everything was going according to plan, and he’d had a particularly good day. Productive outside, and once home Belle had greeted him with a surprise batch of brownies, now that chocolate was becoming available again, and the taste had reminded him of being a child under the care of his aunties, who always made brownies for his birthday. 

For all intents and purposes there was nothing wrong that he could see. Things were returning to normal, as far as he could remember normal to be, and that was the whole point. The sooner things went back to the way things were the better. The more normality set in and time passed the less he’d remember who he’d once become, and how close he’d been to turning into something feral and dark and empty. One day he’d barely be able to recall how it had felt at all, hopefully. Not everything would go back to how it was before, Whale anticipated his sense of smell would always be heightened the same way Mrs Lucas’s hearing had never gone back to normal, but it was something he could live with, and even grow to enjoy.

Once he finally managed to fall asleep he dreamed vividly, though not in terms of visuals as much as in emotions. It was too jumbled to make any sense of it at first, too nonsensical. He dreamed of hunger and yearning, of wanting so deep he felt it in his bones, a sort of burning itch that built up till it threatened to make him go mad.

He woke up with the ache of it still inside him and scrambled out of bed in a hurry, nose already locked on Belle’s faint but unmistakable scent, his mouth salivating at the thought of her. A second later he halted, fully awake and gripped by raw, unfettered panic. He’d been doing so well and yet it was back, the hunger, the all-consuming emptiness inside him that feels so familiar. Denial had clearly clouded his mind before, and so there was nothing to do but to face the reality of it: Belle needed to go.

He staggered out of his room following the directions of his nose, easily placing Belle in the kitchen without even having to think about it. Though the house was dark and quiet it did not deter him at all, his sense of smell guiding him forward. Belle was sitting by the kitchen isle, a book in her hands and a glass of water nearby. She smiled when she spotted him, completely at ease, no trace of adrenaline in the air or physical sign of unease. Somehow it made it all worse, how trusting she was. How comfortable in his presence, completely unaware of his sick urges.

“You need to leave.”

He hadn’t meant it to sound so abrupt and cold, but perhaps that would be the best way to go about it. Be the careless, unfeeling bastard that everyone associated with him, and send her packing. It was something he could apologise for later, something he could fix with time and some dignified grovelling. Belle had a wonderfully forgiving nature, she would gladly resume their friendship if he showed proper contrition for hurting her feelings and behaving beastly. But they would never get over Belle being terrified of him, catching a glimpse of the ugly monster he was inside. If he told her the truth there was no coming back from it.

He hadn’t counted on her stubbornness, however, and on her perceptiveness.

“What is it, what’s going on?”

His hastily put-together plan to drive her away with nasty words and a sneer crumbled before him as she stepped closer and her scent became almost overwhelming. He took a step back, feeling his mouth watering. 

“You have to go. You’re not… You’re not safe here. Not… not safe here with me.”

Even as he said it, as he told him about the monster that he was and how he wanted her to get out before it was too late, he kept seeking her out, maneuvering them until she was pressed against one of the kitchen walls, his body blocking any possible escape. It was a predatory move, and yet Belle did not as much as flinch, or even realise the implications of their position. Too fucking brave and reckless for her own good, always.

“Rum, just calm down. Please, sweetheart, you’ll worry yourself sick. Did you have a nightmare? Do you want to sit down and talk about it?”

Her hands rested against his arms, rubbing up and down to soothe him. It was so tempting to let her do it, to let her touch and her soft words do away with his fears and worries. He curled closer to her, engulfing her as he let her pet his hair and croon reasurances into his ear. She was so small, and it never failed to surprise him, given her larger-than-life presence. Too small to fight him if he did as his body wished and pinned her to the wall, sinking his teeth on her flesh as she struggled beneath him. 

Shamefully, he told her as much, his voice low and full of shame and panic as he shared everything, speaking of his urges, his desire to eat her up, his violent reaction to her scent and how it drove him wild. He was going to hurt her, it was only a matter of time, so she needed to leave right then and there, put a coat on and some shoes and leave before he did something unspeakable, something that could not be undone. Before he…

“Do you _want_ to hurt me?”

Belle’s voice sounded slightly off, and her breathing had quickened, but she did not smell or sound afraid, nor did she stop petting his hair, as if he was the one in need of help and comfort. As if he was worthy of either. Unable to answer he shook his head frantically instead, trying to convey how appalled he was by the notion of it.

“Then what do you want to do to me?”

A spike of something ran down his spine, leaving him jittery and strangely weak-kneed. He tried to put it into words, all of his primal urges and shameful instincts.

“I want- I want…” He breathed in deeply and the smell of her made his entire body tighten with need. “I want to consume you.”

He caught the change in her scent immediately, how it became sharper and sweeter somehow, and his body responded to it almost immediately, muscles locking and cock hardening against the mercifully lose material of his sleeping pants. It was all confusing and painful and strangely delicious at the same time. Belle kept talking to him as she continued to pet his hair, telling him over and over that he wasn’t going to hurt her, that he didn’t want to hurt her.

“You want something else, sweetheart.” 

She pressed herself close, her head fitting snugly against the crook of his neck, her arms coming up around his shoulders, bringing their bodies to almost complete contact. He moaned, feeling his nerves come alive at the softness of her. It wasn’t an altogether unfamiliar sensation, he discovered. The simmering heat, the aching want, it was all startlingly well-known to him, especially in association with Belle French. How he’d never noticed the feeling before he had no idea. Perhaps because it was so like the other violent urges he’d experienced as a creature before, to the point that it had been impossible to tell one hunger from the other.

“I want it too.” 

The part of him that he could recognise as the most human, the most rational, seemed to recoil at that admission, dismissing it as impossible and ludicrous. Belle was young and beautiful, inside out, and Gold was old and ugly, even before the bite. But there was no mistaking the smell of her now that he knew what was going on, slightly tangy and sharper than before, nor the way her skin felt hot under his touch. He pressed his nose against the juncture of her neck, feeling how it was damp with sweat all of a sudden.

“I don’t- I don’t know…”

He felt raw and on the edge, one small touch away from losing control entirely. Even as his body screamed at him to take action, _to take Belle_ , he remained afraid of the possibility of hurting her, of being too rough and violent with her. He was slowly re-learning dexterity and patience, careful touches and what it meant to be a man and not a monster. It was too much to ask him to try to apply any of that newfound knowledge when all he wanted to do was tear Belle’s clothes off and sink into her over and over.

“Shh, let me show you, sweetheart.”

He sighed against her skin, letting her soft voice and lilting accent loosen him up a bit. She kissed his neck, gently at first, letting him become used to the feel of her lips, and began caressing his back with the tips of her fingers. It all felt incredible but not overwhelming and he slowly began to reciprocate, nuzzling against her and running his hands down her back. He slipped his fingers beneath her flimsy tank top, tentatively beginning to map out her back, feeling the catch of raised skin every once in a while. Scars, the part of his mind that hadn’t completely shut down the moment Belle pressed her lips against him whispered. She’d suffered too, during the years they had spent apart. He’d seen a glimpse of that before, in the thinness of her body and the way she slept only in intervals, in the way she sometimes flinched at loud noises.

Belle didn’t deserve any of it. Didn’t deserve a moment of pain, and least of all a permanent mememento of it. He found himself wishing he’d been there when the scars had happened, wishing he could have torn the culprits to shreds one by one. Before he could take the revenge fantasy too far he felt Belle’s mouth press closer against his skin, taking a mouthful of it and sucking with delicious vigour. He moaned curling his fingers against his skin and noticed with a whimper of distress he was digging his nails into her back, the faint scent of blood hitting him almost as soon as he noticed. He tried to push away, to let go of her and step back before he could do any more damage, but she clung to him, moaning.

“Hush, it’s okay, it feels good. It feels so good, sweetheart.”

Belle was not fragile. He could feel the muscles beneath her skin, lean but strong. Life hadn’t been any kinder to her during the past few years than to him. She has always been tough on the inside, as much as most people would scoff at the notion, but necessity had made her hard on the outside too. She wouldn’t break easily, didn’t need careful handling. He allowed himself to be rougher, to haul her up on the kitchen counter and press his mouth against hers. She tasted as good as she smelled, and kissing her felt like drinking after days of thirst. This is what he’d been craving all along, the feel of her skin against his, the pressure of her legs around his waist and the taste of her on his mouth as they began to pull at their clothing, ripping a seam here and a button there.

They moved at some point, stumbling around in the near darkness for a bit of warmth and a comfortable spot. The shaggy rug by the still-lit fire living-room was plush enough to do the trick and they sprawled on top of it with little grace, rolling around and nipping at each other’s skin like animals. There was little time to think, which was a blessing, only enough to react, to follow instinct wherever it may lead. At first he was content letting her have the upper hand, relishing in the way she straddled him, the way her breasts felt pressed up against his chest as they kissed, their teeth and tongues clashing with little finesse but great enthusiasm.

By the time his blood was close to boiling he was done passively lying down, using brute force and little else to turn them around and tackle her to the ground. His right leg protested but he paid it little mind as he took his time staring at Belle’s naked body. Her hair was a mess and small, red marks where beginning to bloom on different parts of her body and she was, without a doubt, the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Her skin had a soft peachy flush and she was beginning to recover a little bit of the softness he remembered, but she was still mostly lean muscles and sharp bones. But her eyes were gentle, speaking of a nature that remained unchanged. How it must have cost, to be kind in unkind times.

Belle French was fierce. Fierce and _his_ , somehow, and he did not let that pass him by, did not allow himself to second-guess things or doubt. Instead he pinned her to the shaggy carpet, growling against her throat as she took his cock in her hands and guided him into the sweet warmth of her wet cunt. She gasped but he took her mouth in his to swallow the sound, eager for it and any other evidences of her pleasure. She felt exquisite, specially when she wrapped her legs around his waist and allowed him deeper into her. 

He began to move slowly, building up speed out of sheer sense of need and following Belle’s rather vocal demands of “please” and “harder”. The more he pounded into her, his muscles burning as he sought to bury himself as deep as he could in her, the more demanding she got, first digging her dainty little fingers into his shoulders and then reaching out with one hand to yank at his hair. The pain of it all was glorious, satisfying the part of him that he’d been running away from for weeks, that dark and feral side he was so afraid of.

He let out an obscene sound of triumph when he felt her tense up beneath him, arching up as her cunt gripped him tighter, eyes closed and mouth open in a silent scream. He’d been wanting to know the sight of Belle French in the throes of orgasm for years, he knew then, had fantasised about it and wanted it for close to the entirety of their acquaintance. He felt the weight of the sheer satisfaction of it all, almost as keenly as he felt his own release minutes later. By the end of it his throat and his nerve endings were raw, his skin cold and clammy with sweat and his hair sticking to his face, damp and unruly. He felt Belle’s gentle fingers combing through it and if he’d been able to purr he would have done so, surely.

The second time they made love it was long, and soft, and sweet. By the time it was over the fire on the chimney was reduced to gently-glowing embers and the grey light of dawn was beginning to crawl through the windows and into the room. They cuddled in the afterglow, finding only enough energy and patience to lay a fleece blanket over their cooling bodies. Belle nuzzled close, smelling strangely of what he could only describe as a mixture of satisfaction and happiness, and he fought the urge to feel smug. They made small talk for a while, whispering words about tentative future plans, him asking her haltingly to stay with him and her reassuring him that she would be glad to, but their sleeping arrangements might need a tweak or to moving forward. After a while she drifted off and he felt her go lax in his arms, the softest of snores escaping her as she succumbed to sleep.

As he sought his own rest he thought about the future some more. About the increasing pain in his leg, and how he’d soon be completely unable to support himself without the help of his cane, and about his slow realisation that the man he’d been before all of it had lived a life of pain and loneliness, and of fighting for everything he got. He’d been too focused on going back to how things were that he did not consider that it was neither completely possible nor entirely desirable. Change was good, and sometimes necessary. Even if he never went back to being whole there was a future for it, and with Belle in his arms, her skin pressed against his, it was easier than ever to imagine it. A hopeful future, even. He’d had a halfway non-hostile conversation with Mrs Lucas a few days ago, both haltingly attempting to share bits of wisdom about how to live with enhanced senses, and Dr Hopper had reached out to help him often, free of charge in spite of his demands to repay him. It wasn’t much, but he gathered it was a good start.


End file.
